


Mastering the Art of Freely Living

by Saffronthread



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Basically a Julie and Julia AU, Because of course he is, Big Brother Uchiha Itachi, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fugaku needs to chill, Gaara's in this too, Gen, Hatake Kakashi is a Troll, He's also a book nerd, Hinata is too good for us, Itachi belongs in a cooking anime, Itachi vs Egg, Julia Child is probably rolling in her grave, M/M, Naruto and Sasuke are great roommates, Naruto and Sasuke are terrible baristas, Naruto and Sasuke getting along omg, Naruto is a good boy, Neji is so over it, POV Haruno Sakura, POV Uchiha Itachi, Part 2, Sakura is the only rational one, Sakura puts up with a lot of Sasuke's drama, Sasuke is not as antisocial here, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto Friendship, Uchiha Shisui Lives, and he's Itachi's roommate, and you know it, being too pure, but who knows, definitely not me, don't lie to yourself, fight me, he's also rational, that's a good movie, their coffee is horrible, this will probably be super fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffronthread/pseuds/Saffronthread
Summary: Sakura's first year of college is off to a great start, except for the whole "pretentious literature professor" thing.Itachi is said literature professor, and he MIGHT have a few... "extravagant" personality quirks, not that he'll ever admit to them.SOMEHOW, through separate means, they both reach the same conclusion: cook their way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking.Literally no one is happy about it.A trash "Julie and Julia" college AU that even I didn't ask for.





	Mastering the Art of Freely Living

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you: the "Julie and Julia" rom-com-Uchiha-angst-fest AU that LITERALLY NO ONE ASKED FOR. 
> 
>  
> 
> “Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.”  
> ― David Lynch

No matter how you slice it, Naruto and Sasuke are both bottom-of-the-barrel baristas, with a combined aptitude for brewing a simple pot of coffee far exceeding the point of shameful.

And that’s putting it kindly.

All their friends know it, their aloof boss knows it, any human who has even so much as _walked past_ the coffeehouse at any given time knows it, and yet, despite better judgement, and despite knowing that they’re both _idiots_ , Sakura tries to remain optimistic. She loves them to pieces and likes to think they'll get the hang of it eventually.

It’s only been eighteen months, after all.

But still, she’s hopeful. Not so much because of their overwhelming passion for latte art and customer service - of which they each have none, respectively - but more so because she needs them to pay their portion of the rent on time.

However, on nights like this, when she’s halfway through her fourth cup of scalding coffee (or maybe it's cow shit, or maybe even poison, who can really tell at this point?), it becomes increasingly difficult to look past Naruto and Sasuke’s… well… everything.

Again, that’s putting it kindly. Once the caffeine wears off and the headaches set in, it’ll be a different story.

Sakura breathes in through the mouth, out through the nose, and flips through this week’s copy of _The New Yorker_. The articles themselves don’t interest her, something about them feels too pretentious for her liking, but today there’s a lengthy review about a new novel that's garnered a plethora of attention. Numerous critics are throwing the term “instant classic” around in every which direction, and honestly it's no surprise the book is taking the world by storm. Seeing as it has the Uchiha Publication’s gold stamp of approval, it must be something worthwhile.

“Oi, Naruto!” Sasuke’s voice cuts through the relative calm of CopyCat Cafe. “How many times do I have to tell you not to mop the floors whenever you please, you moron! Are you trying to break my neck?”

“You’re the one who spilled cappuccino, ya know! That stuff’s sticky!”

Another gulp of poison burns the back of her throat. It’s amazing their boss trusts them enough to leave for the night, she thinks, rubbing small circles into her temples, trying to quell the throb at the brink of its emergence.   

Caffeine is a must, but her friends’ unholy creations cause heartburn. And hot flashes. And somehow mood swings, amongst other symptoms that arouse suspicion. To put it simply, they have quite possibly discovered the recipe to provoke either human asexual reproduction, or premature menopause. Regardless, it’s a scientific breakthrough that needs to be patented and studied.

Telling them that their coffee tastes like what she can only imagine to be manure-infused vodka is off the table. They get offended too easily, too dramatically, too world-altering-ly, and somehow they always manage to find ways to collect all their failures and tightly sew them into their core identities.

 

Examples Include, But Are Not Limited To:

1\. Naruto forgetting to take out the trash?

  * Irresponsible since birth.
  * Seriously, how could he be so _self centered_?
  * Sakura and Sasuke are probably looking for a replacement roommate at this very moment.



2\. Missing the final goal of his soccer team’s championship game? 

  * A massive disappointment.
  * Unreliability must be ingrained in his DNA.
  * He’s been practicing by himself for two hours every morning since.



3\. Not getting accepted into Konoha University along with Sasuke and Sakura? 

  * Well.



 

On The Flip Side--

1\. Sasuke accidentally setting his microwavable dinner on fire and ruining Sakura’s handmade oven mitts?  

  * Might as well be an arsonist.
  * Unforgivable.
  * Blocked and reported.



2\. Getting a B in high school English? 

  * Pathetic.
  * Perhaps he was switched with another baby in the delivery room, because there’s _no way_ he’s the son of the leading figure in the publishing industry.
  * _No way_ will he be able to contribute to his family’s prestigious company.
  * _No chance in hell_ his father will hire him after college.



3\. Not skipping three grades and graduating high school at age thirteen like  _a certain man_ once did?

4\. Not following in  _that man’s_ footsteps by graduating from Oxford University with a PhD in English literature?

5\. Going to a  _state school_ with a mediocre literature program at best?

6\. Enrolling in said school as an  _undecided_ student?

  * Well.



 

So she can’t tell them about the coffee, how could she? They’d probably convince themselves that they’re the worst baristas in history (they are, but that’s none of their business) and that everyone in all of Massachusetts has just been taking pity on them this whole time (also true, but beside the point).

Plus, there’s the guilt. Naruto has a tendency to dart over to her table as soon as she sits down and proudly gift her with a free cup he freshly made, which is too precious, too pure. And Sasuke, to his credit, will occasionally walk past as though he “just happened to be in the neighborhood” to give her a refill. Sometimes an experimental latte that, ten times out of ten, tastes eerily similar to store brand Pepto-Bismol. He only gives them to her, though. Ino, Shikamaru, Choji, Lee, especially Lee, all get the cold shoulder, and Sakura is not above admitting to feeling just a tad special.

More importantly, should her dearest idiots be exposed to their shortcomings, they would undoubtedly drag her down to the pits of hell to taste test and judge hundreds of coffee samples in attempt to one-up each other. Likely for the rest of her life.

That can never happen.

It won’t, so long as she has anything to say about it. Drinking a few bad coffees is nothing in comparison to what she knows those two are capable of.   

How they’ve managed to not get fired during their year and a half of employment is a complete mystery and, despite becoming a college freshman at precisely tomorrow o’clock, Sakura is already imagining the possibility of writing a senior thesis on corrupt workplace favoritism. (Is any type of favoritism _not_ corrupt? Would she have to include that in her research? (She needs a nap. A long, eight to ten hour nap.))

The coffeehouse is quiet enough, save for a few customers. All of whom, Sakura notices after a quick scan of the room, are notably lacking in coffee, and instead cradle paper cups with tea strings hanging down the sides. Human adaptation at its finest, all of them. Indoor voiced conversations fuse into a soothing white noise that balances out Boston’s vehement traffic anthems just beyond the glass door, sleek with humidity.

Tables both square and round are spread out evenly, with Sakura nesting in the far back corner with her laptop, well within eyeshot of both the door and counter. The brown tiled floors and earthy green walls give the place a certain ambiance akin to tasteless, safari-themed summer camps. If there’s one saving grace, it’s that the owner, Kakashi, is an absolute genius when it comes to coffee. Armored with the ability to taste any of his competitors’ drinks _once_ and immediately able to replicate _and_ enhance it, he's a force to be reckoned with. There are rumors that he single-handedly ran all other coffeehouses in the neighborhood bankrupt within his first year of business, but there’s no one left from the original staff to verify the claim. But still.

Watch out, Starbucks.  

Sasuke is at the register, writing down a complicated order with a visible twitch in his jaw. Naruto is standing directly behind him, not unlike an overexcited puppy, informing the customer of every syrup and flavor combination in his arsenal to drag out the number of boxes the dark haired barista has to check off on the cup.

Luckily for the blonde, that customer happens to be Hinata, tall and beautiful and uncomfortably repeating “okay, okay, sure, yes” in that order like a broken record to all of Naruto’s suggestions.

Unluckily for Sasuke, Neji is standing right beside her, looking all kinds of annoyed, so any biting comment he might have made under normal circumstances is null and void.

As much as Sakura loves watching the trainwreck that is their only joint shift of the week (a phenomenon that only occurs on Sunday nights when the planets align and business is slow), she has a paper to finish writing. Her first class of her first semester at Konoha University doesn’t even start until tomorrow morning, yet she already has a three paged analysis essay due. It’s for Intro to Literature, which is technically a class freshman would fulfill during their second semester, but taking AP Composition in high school exempts her from English Comp 101.

Just as her luck would have it, the professor she signed up to have had a heart attack back in early July. He’s okay now, but won’t be returning until the spring. When she received an email from the dean of the English department stating that a replacement professor had been hired, she didn’t expect a summer assignment to be attached.

She has no idea who this new professor is -- a crabby old man who sits around in a robe all day probably -- but if assigning incoming freshmen to read and then write a paper on _Catcher in the Rye_ during the last three weeks of summer doesn’t raise red flags, she doesn’t know what does. Already it’s clear to her that acing this course will be exceedingly arduous. Sakura has countless academic strengths. Science and math come as naturally to her as breathing, like an extension of her very soul. She could sit around all day and work on advanced chemistry problem sets, study biology and anatomy flashcards like a children’s memory game, read medical journals the way she would a thriller novel, and be perfectly content. It’s her zone, her happy place, her center of rotation.

Aside from that, history comes easily enough. Memorization is one of her strong suits, and while the subject doesn’t inspire her the way science does, it is simultaneously not _un_ interesting. English composition is fine. Research papers are fine. She has no problem writing down facts and theories about whatever topics are thrown her way. Proving a point in essay format is not a problem, the art of arguing is rooted deep within her and she can easily spark passionate debates on just about anything. The same goes for research and citations: information collection adds to the puzzle of her argument, and unlocking its final core statement is on equal levels of satisfaction as finishing a rubik's cube in one go (which she has done on six separate occasions without cheating, thanks).

But figuring out why some annoying character in a book wants to pay a prostitute just to idly _chat_ ? Or the symbolic significance of a ratty old _baseball mitt_ ? Or how the prostitute and and baseball mitt _connect_ with one another _in accordance to the narrative_? Bye.

She likes reading, she really does, but _man_ why does there always have to be a symbolic meaning for _everything_ ? Reading is _fun_ , or at least it should be. Can’t the damn curtains be blue just for the sake of being blue?

What’s worse is it’s due at 8am on the dot. She has exactly five sentences written out, and no two of them belong to the same paragraph.

 ** Measly Three Page Paper ** : 1,  **Sakura Haruno, Straight A Student, Never Received Anything Lower Than A 95% Ever In Her Life** : 0.

She downs the remainder of her coffee (though she’s almost completely sure that this is in fact the stuff they use to clean rust off of old pennies) and commits herself to her assignment.

 

Two hours pass and the clock hits 9pm, closing time. Since buckling down on her studies, Sakura has effectively checked Twitter every other minute, had three more cups of angsty-male-rivalry-brewed poison, ate a protein cookie (or two, or six) that her fitness instructor recommended, and talked on the phone with Ino for forty-ish minutes about why some socially inept guy isn't answering her texts.

But really, who’s counting?

On the flip side, she did manage to almost reach the bottom of page one, so. Slow progress is still progress, as the bright yellow poster at her gym says.    

“Sa-kuuu-raaahh,” Naruto’s chipper voice reaches her table before the rest of him does. His bright orange sweatshirt has an almost blinding effect, like a _do not cross_ signal come to life, yet somehow he manages to make it look natural. He might be the only person she knows who can pull that off. He waves back towards the counter with one hand, mop held firm in the other. “We’ll be done closing in twenty minutes. Wait for us and we can all take the train back.”

She does, she waited around until closing after all. Not to mention she _lives_ with them, for Pete's sake. But Naruto is always asking, always double, triple, sometimes quadruple checking that everyone’s on board with the plan. It’s not annoying by any means, though, especially in comparison to Sasuke, who won't notice she's not around until days go by without them seeing each other. When juxtaposed in that vein, Naruto is a living, breathing double shot of quality espresso.

Walking home is anything but quiet. Even when they’re both tired after a long shift, their constant banter is relentless. Sakura finds it somewhat calming, a normative ritual she’s come to appreciate since they all moved inbound, even though it all gets tuned out as background noise. The tapping of their footfalls against the pavement is rhythmic in the most uneven of ways, like starting the same song at three different stanzas just for it to harmonize with itself.

The station at Park Street is only a seven minute walk from the coffeehouse, with cramped platforms polluted by a perennial stench of burnt rubber. Tall fans separate the differing train lines and churns the humidity into something you could choke on. Luckily, Davis Square is only six stops away on the Red Line, then it’s just a five minute walk after that. The planets must have had to align perfectly for them to find an available apartment close to CopyCat, Konoha University, and Haruno’s Place - the small diner Sakura’s parents own. She works there during the breakfast and brunch hours on weekends and most weeknights as the leading hostess.

“Hey, Sakura, you have an early class tomorrow, yeah?” Naruto taps an uneven brick on the ground with the toe of his boot. The dull underground lights dampen the orange of his shirt, the laugh lines at the edges of his mouth. She tries to think back to the last time he “casually” brought up the topic of college without it sounding too forced, like he wants to reassure her that it doesn't bother him in the slightest, and comes up with nothing since the start of senior year.

“Yeah, 8am sharp. Have an essay due that I haven’t finished yet,” she rolls her eyes playfully. Naruto starts classes on Thursday at Bunker Hill Community College, leaving him with three extra days of summer she knows he doesn’t want.

“Already? Damn, that’s rough,” he grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “What class is that for?”

“Intro to Lit,” she says softly, shifting her eyes over his shoulder at Sasuke, who’s reading a small paperback novel his father probably rejected upon first glance. On any given day, the mere mention of the word “literature” is enough to set him off on a growling rampage against his father, the Uchiha business as a whole, and, of course, his older brother, Itachi. Too much of a reminder, too fresh a wound. And the fact that his AP Composition scores weren’t high enough to exempt him from English Comp 101 is a sore subject, if sore means excruciatingly awkward. Like, it might be less uncomfortable to drown in quicksand while also on fire.

Is it a big deal in the long run? No. Not from where Sakura stands. But then again, she wasn’t raised in a family who only prioritizes academic achievements. Did Fugaku not speak to his own son for the majority of the summer upon learning his university decisions?

Yes. Yes he did. 

Naruto nods in understanding and moves on to talk about an unjust scolding Kakashi dealt him the other day over swapping the cinnamon and nutmeg jar labels. When the train arrives ten minutes late, as per usual, the three shoehorn themselves into the midst of the Great Wall of Bodies blocking the entrance.    

“Ugh, so many people,” she just barely hears Sasuke grumble as he pushes through a group of loud teenagers only to be pressed up against a large sweaty man in a black band t-shirt. “Stupid concerts.”    

“Concerts are fun! Don’t be a grump just ‘cause no one wants to go see Taking Back Sunday with you, ya know?” Naruto raises his voice just enough to be heard by roughly everyone in the crowded train car, maybe even the next car over too, and Sasuke flinches at the sound with a twitch in his jaw. The train starts to slow as it approaches Charles MGH, the audible rush of wheels against metal tracks calming to a stop.

“You only say that because you’re a filthy plebeian.” He looks up at the blonde briefly before returning his attention back to his book that, Sakura can’t help but notice, has a purple dragon on the cover. If words could bite their way out of the vocal cords that conceived them, then Sasuke wouldn’t even have a throat anymore. Passengers directly within earshot of the two, including Mr Band Shirt, turn their heads a fraction in their direction and fade out their own conversations, quite possibly out of curiosity as to _who_ the _heck_ still uses _plebeian_ as an insult?

“Oh hush now, both of you,” Sakura interjects, a familiar throbbing sensation in her head resurfacing. The car doors slide open, releasing a few from their bondage only to squish more new prisoners inside. “You’re going to cause another scene if you keep going at it.” They don’t listen to her, surprise surprise, and the remainder of the commute consists of the same merciless bickering she’s heard a million times before.

All in all, a pleasant evening.  

 

 

The trusty pink and red alarm clock on her bedside table winds up getting knocked to the floor, landing atop a pile of clothes she keeps meaning to put in the hamper but doesn’t. Pushing herself up onto her side, Sakura leans her weight on one arm while brushing her fingers through tangled pink hair with the other. Her vision goes in and out of focus, a blurry mist distorting basic shapes and lines, and she tries convincing herself that the clock says 5:30 instead of 6:33. Pale light filters in through uneven blinds that are missing more than a few rows. She should really get that fixed. And put the clothes in the hamper. And get out of bed. Only one of those things will happen today.

Finally rolling out of bed, she grabs the outfit draped over her desk chair along with a brush and stumbles across the narrow hallway into the bathroom. There’s a stream of water trickling down the sink faucet and a pair of boxers crumpled on the floor next to the hamper, surefire signs that Naruto is already awake and out at the fields. Sakura folds her clothes over the plastic towel rack and grabs her toothbrush from the medicine cabinet along with the nearly empty tube of toothpaste, rolled so tightly into itself that it’s a wonder how anything could possibly be squeezed out of it.

After brushing her teeth, she hops in the shower. Warm water doesn’t shake off the exhaustion, it might actually just make it worse, but it does soothe the kinks in her neck and shoulders from being hunched over writing that essay until two in the morning. It’s by no means a paper to be proud of, but the first assignment of any class is typically graded with a comical amount if leniency, so it’s nothing to be too worried about.

It takes a total of fifteen minutes for her to shower, dry off, brush the tangles out of her hair, and get dressed. A personal best.

Sasuke is, surprisingly, sitting at the kitchen table cradling a bowl of dry Cheerios. His hair is stiff and standing in all kinds of directions, like he used glue instead of shampoo, and the dark circles under his eyes are doing nothing for his complexion.

“Mornnnn,” he mumbles in between chews.

“Did I wake up in another dimension? You know it’s not afternoon yet, right?” Leaning against the doorway connecting the hallway and main room, which is just the fusion of their kitchen and living room, she leans one hand against her hip and grins at her dark haired roommate.

“Shuut uhhhh.” The less awake Sasuke is, the more he’s prone to give up on words halfway out of his mouth. “Coffee.” Except that one, apparently.

“Aren’t you the barista?” She crosses the squeaky wooden floor, which makes it nearly impossible to sneak up on anyone, drops her backpack on one of the gray folding chairs, and rummages through the refrigerator. An egg carton with no eggs in it (Naruto), half a gallon of expired milk (Sasuke), leftover pasta (Sakura), a block of cheddar cheese (Naruto), salad dressing that’s been sitting there since they first moved in (Unknown, but they suspect The Benevolent Apartment Ghost), a pint of grape tomatoes (Sasuke), and a box of strawberry-kiwi GoGurt (Naruto, but Sakura and Sasuke eat all of them before the poor blonde even stands a chance). She grabs the leftover pasta and a GoGurt tube, which gets shoved greedily into her backpack for later, then pushes the magnet-covered door shut with her knee and turns back to her zombie friend.

He just glares at her, head tilted to one side, with narrowed eyes and the _you should know better by now_ expression he so often wears. “Coffee,” he repeats, pushing an empty mug in her direction.

“Fine, fine.” She pops her food into their old microwave, which _definitely_ needs to be deep-scrubbed and disinfected, maybe even purified via holy water, then digs around the cabinet directly above for the Folgers container. Once the coffee starts to brew (in their brand new coffee maker they ~~fought an old lady over~~ bought during a clearance sale and are very proud of, thank you very much) she sits down on the opposite side of the table and stretches her arms above her head. “When’s your first class?”

“Noon. Statistics, I think,” he says more coherently now, spooning another bite of cereal before collapsing his head against the red diner table Sakura’s parents bequeathed them. “I don’t wanna go.”

The microwave beeps once, a low staticky sound that drags on and on until someone pushes the button to swing the door open. She gets up to do just that and fills a mug with tap water. Steam rises from the gray ceramic bowl and the smell of spaghetti in a simple tomato sauce catches Sasuke’s attention, so Sakura grabs two forks instead of one from the drawer next to the stove. “Noon? It’s almost seven. Like, in the morning.” She pushes the nearest chair closer to his with her foot and sets the bowl and forks between them. “Why are you up so early?”

“Mom’s coming over soon,” he answers, abandoning the Cheerios and twirling a fork into the bowl.

She almost chokes on her water, not that Sasuke notices.

Mikoto Uchiha’s incoming presence into _this very apartment_ makes bile congregate at the base of Sakura’s throat. It also makes her want to scrub every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling until there’s no inkling of dust left behind.

_Ugh, she’s going to think we’re pigs like Ino…_

It’s not that she doesn’t _like_ Mikoto, she does. The woman is elegant, intelligent, generous, and has the power to destroy the mental stability of just about _anyone_ with only a few carefully chosen words. She’s a high standard Sakura would like to hold herself up to one day. The problem lies more within the fact that the Uchiha matriarch is not overly fond of people she doesn’t know too well, according to Sasuke, and is in no way shy about it. With her youngest son’s desperate efforts to keep his family and friends separate, the two women have never really had the chance to exchange more than a few basic greetings and idle small talk over the past decade.  

 _Maybe I should lock the door to my room so Mikoto won’t happen to walk by and see the pile of clothes on the floor? No. Then it’s obvious I have something to hide._ She takes a huge bite of the pasta and is instantly pulled out of her anxious contemplation.   

The spaghetti is a polarizing range of temperatures, some strands cold, some way too hot, while the rest are stuck in a lukewarm limbo. A new microwave just found itself on the top of Sakura’s wishlist, amongst other worthy contenders such as: a silverware set (sans the irremovable yellow stains), decent carpets for each room (and tiles for the bathroom), a TV set that was produced after 2002, a stand for said TV, new blinds and curtains for the windows, a new couch from an actual furniture store and not a yard sale, matching dishware sets, and scented candles. Many, many scented candles. Half of which in Naruto and Sasuke’s room. With these, she thinks, Mikoto might approve of her son’s living space. And therefore his roommates, right? Right? “It’s a bit early for a visit, is everything okay?”  

“Eh. Something about a ‘first day of college chat,’ I don’t know. Sounds like another sex talk to me,” he grumbles, the hot and cold pasta not phasing him in the slightest.

“I’m sure she’s not trooping it over here to inquire about your sex life. Anyway, I think it’s sweet your mom’s coming over on your first day!” _Please convince her to like me._

“Annoying.”

“Of course,” she rolls her eyes and turns to check the microwave clock -- three minutes past seven. Guess she’s not having coffee. “I gotta go. Class in an hour.” She rises from her chair, taking one last bite of pasta as she does so, and reaches over for her red backpack. “My last class ends at four, so I’ll go grocery shopping before I get home, coffee should be done soon, tell your mom I said hi,” she rattles off quickly on her way towards the front door. He hums in reply.

Keys, check. Wallet, check. Laptop, check. Phone, check. Notebook and pen, check and check. Printed copy of her essay, check. Printed copy of her schedule, check. All set to go.

“I’m off!”

The door clicks shut behind her and she gives it a couple tugs before rushing down the stairs two at a time. Their apartment is on the second floor, with a married couple and a middle-aged dentist living above and below them respectively. Echoes of footsteps from above are much more audible from the bottom floor landing, and she thinks the hurried steps descending the stairs might be Sasuke’s typical hurried pace, but it’s just the husband from the floor above.

“Good morning, Sakura. Off to class already?”

“Morning, Asuma! Yup! First class starts at eight!” She opens the front door and holds it for him, allowing a blast of humidity to enter the building. They both move quickly out the threshold and squint through the merciless sunlight and damp air.    

“Excellent, good luck with school. And this heat,” he waves at her while heading to his sleek black car parked in front of the building. He’s a businessman, from what she can tell based on his three piece suits and two differing cell phones, but has no idea what type of business he does. She should probably ask, but after knowing him and his wife for so many months, she feels the window of opportunity has long since passed.

“Thank you!” She quickly turns on the sidewalk and, of course, immediately collides with another pedestrian, who stumbles back but sticks the landing nonetheless. Of course this happens when she’s running late on her first day. Because why be on time for class when you can affront strangers instead? “My bad! I’m sorry!” When she looks up to make sure the other person is okay and not in fact affronted, she has the horrifying realization --

“Sakura?” The gentle yet firm voice never ceases to send chills down her spine.

“O-oh! Mrs. Uchiha! I’m so so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going! Are you okay?”   

The woman’s gaze lingers on her for just a few seconds before smiling. “No harm done.”

“Glad to hear! Oh! Would you like me to go up with you and unlock the door? I have my key out alre--”

“No, thank you.” Mikoto's thin hands are folded in front of her like she’s posing for a portrait painting, and not a single strand of hair is out of place despite the weather, _and despite just having an eighteen year-old run into her at full speed_. Never once does she break eye contact, an intimidation tactic with the potency to end wars. Or start them. Both are terrifying. The woman smiles again, but it doesn’t reach the rest of her face.

Sakura can’t place her finger on _why_ exactly, but somehow she knows she’s just been judged without fair trial. “O-okay. Well, sorry again! Hope all is well!” Stepping off to the side, she continues on her way to the station, wishing all the more to fully sink into the cement.

“Oh, and Sakura?”

Awkwardly, she jerks to a stop and looks back. “Yes?”

“Do say hello to my son if you see him. First days can be stressful, and a friendly face goes a long way.”

“Uh-- okay, of course!” _Please like me._

Mikoto nods and gracefully turns to ascend up the building steps.

The clock on her cell phone reads 7:09, so all cringing will have to be saved for a later date. It only takes a couple of minutes to full-on sprint from the apartment to Davis Square, so she makes it just in time to catch the 7:12 inbound train to Ashmont. Integrating into a herd of people shepherding themselves into each car, she winds up standing squished between other businessmen dressed like Asuma. The heat is unbearable. Between this stupid Boston humidity and the unwelcome body heat from the other passengers, Sakura feels like she’s melting from the inside out. The sudden jerks and inconsistent speeds of the the train don't help, dizziness plaguing her despite holding on to the handlebar for dear life.   

It takes thirty-six minutes to get from Davis to JFK, and another seven for the shuttle to get from the station to campus. Instead of looking over her schedule, Sakura spends all of that precious time deep breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ And to take her mind off the temptation to just faint and call it a day, she mulls over her conversation with Mikoto. _She thinks I have a friendly face? She thinks my friendly face will ease Sasuke's stress? He doesn’t seem more stressed than usual, has he been keeping something from me? Has his dad been getting on his case again? Does he think my face is friendly, too?_ Repeatedly. In that order. None of those questions have clear-cut answers, but that doesn’t stop her from looping through each one like a broken record.

Suddenly, after exiting the train at JFK station, the humidity doesn’t seem so bad anymore, and the cramped shuttle ride to the Campus Center is a gentle breeze in contrast.

The university is split between seven buildings with a large courtyard separating them. Intro to Literature is located in the Dickinson building, the oldest of the seven, and by far the least insulated. Humidity from outside pulsates through the walls, condensation dripping down the beige chipped paint like sweat. Students move sluggishly through the halls, fanning themselves with folders and pressing cold water bottles to their foreheads. Sakura checks her schedule for her room number. First floor, room 127. By the time she finds her classroom and settles on a seat up front, it’s 7:58.

Scanning the room, she notices the bored expressions on most her peers. Seeing as how they’ve all likely completed at least one other college semester here before, it’s no surprise the first day doesn’t phase them. One guy even showed up in what Sakura can only assume are his pajama shorts and a tank top.  

On the other hand, the new freshmen stand out. They’re all alert, sitting up straight with notebooks and pens at the ready, and most are sporting some type of university merchandise Sakura had refused to buy during orientation. There are only a handful, but they might as well be the only living things in the classroom, comparatively speaking.     

“Good morning, class,” a composed voice says from the front of the room. Sakura turns back around.

Her eyes widen.

The man, who Definitely. Does. Not. Look. Exactly. Like. Anyone. She. Lives. With, lays a briefcase down on the long metal desk in front of the white board and pulls out a sheet of paper. “My name is Professor Uchiha, and I look forward to working with you all this semester. Please pass this attendance sheet around, then we will get started.”

A quick survey of the room tells Sakura that her classmates are just as in awe by their new professor as she is, but for vastly different reasons.

_Shit. Sasuke’s going to burst a blood vessel when he finds out about this._


End file.
